When Kurt thought about Ororo-the white haired, agreeable mutant with the shadow of rage filling her dark eyes-and the brief time he'd spent with her and her comrades, he far too often found himself thinking about her soul, and not the beauty of her smile, so hesitantly directed at him when he'd made a joke, as if bearing her true self to him was a sign of weakness.
The image of her, and the anger she'd so adamantly spoke of, made his heart pound with longing, and he quickly chastised himself for it. Longing for her, and her smile and her eyes and her touch, longing for her companionship and her voice and her kindness.
It all drove him to a sort of madness, and he prayed for her day and night, fearing that she, too, felt such a longing, and had spiraled uncontrollably within her memory of hatred and spite.
He knew, though, deep down within his heart, that she didn't really miss him-only yearned for him as a friend would.
He also knew that the feeling would fade, and that he could never join her separate life of ire, or touch her bloodied hands-no matter how much he simply wanted to. A
nd it made Kurt shake with sadness, bowing on his knees before an aged marble statue, the flickering flame of a single candle casting shadows across his runed face, like the exact patterns of the simplest dance in the world.
When Kurt crossed Storm's mind, she didn't see his yellow eyes, or his prehensile tail, or his large hands and feet, or the etched lines lying upon his indigo skin.
No, she saw who he really was.
She saw the dejection shining in his stare, and the hesitant smile that displayed his fangs, and the shy way he tucked his tail behind him so no one would notice it, and the way he wrung his two-fingered hands together nervously-as if keeping them shrouded-, and the words resting between the lines, the story of each and every scar as plain as day upon his body.
She thought of his departure, and of his faithful nature, his utterly loyal belief that things were destined, that rage was unneeded in life. And the statement, coming to her mind, and the implication, that he could find her-a mutant-beautiful, and the fluttering thing within her that made her think that he, too, was beauty in its purest form, his urgent desire to hide away taking from the world a cherished person.
Kurt didn't judge, and he certainly didn't hurt people , and his sole reliance was upon a crumbling statue, placed in an abandoned church as he prayed before it, candle lit, scalpel and bandage beside him as he begged atonement for another sin.
She could imagine him now, doing just that, the curls of his blue hair falling before his closed eyes, his lips gently murmuring soft words beneath his breath, his hands clasped around rosary beads as if they were what anchored him to the world, the swish of his tail against the carpet cutting through the palpable silence as he tried, absently and in vain, to stop what was completely involuntary-and his slight frustration as he got distracted from his prayers, the corners of his lips turning down a fraction.
Storm thought, and she imagined, and she dreamed-and found herself smiling every time.
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